Molly arrived two days later in a blue hatchback loaded with groceries and one overpacked suitcase. She met me in the parking lot of a different motel, held me longer than she usually did, and immediately complained that I looked like a man trying to live on vending-machine food. We ate soup in the small restaurant next door while I gave her an accurate account of the situation, including the things I was embarrassed to admit. I told her I had been followed, that a threat had come under my door, and that I was afraid I had bought a disaster with the last of my savings.
"I know why you didn't tell me everything," she said. "You think I have my own life and you shouldn't burden me." I stared into my soup and said that was part of it. She told me she was not a child I had to protect by hiding the hard parts. Then she asked what I would tell one of her students if they came to school with proof that someone was threatening them and insisted they could handle it alone. I told her I would call a parent and make a plan with people who could help.
"Then do that," she said, reaching across the table. Her hands were small like Claire's, but her expression was all her own. We sat together until the restaurant closed, talking not just about Christine but about the divorce, the move, and why I had been so eager to go somewhere nobody knew my name. I told her I had begun to feel like my old life was a room that belonged to everybody except me. She said buying a ranch might be a good way to start again, provided I did not use the woods to disappear from people who loved me.
The next morning, Molly went with me to Lena's office, where we reviewed the practicalities of occupying the property. The county attorney had confirmed that the ranch's recorded access easement was separate from the subdivision road, and the sheriff's office had been given the documents. Lena sent Christine a final written demand to stop blocking entry and preserve all communications, financial records, and documents related to Morrison Ranch. The letter requested an answer within twenty-four hours without accepting any of the association's alleged deadlines. It did not threaten revenge or announce that Christine was under investigation.
At noon, a white envelope appeared in the motel lobby addressed to me. It contained a photocopy of my certified plat with the Morrison parcel circled in red, and a typed sentence: YOU CAN OWN A LINE ON PAPER AND STILL LOSE EVERYTHING BEHIND IT. The manager had accepted it from a courier who left no return information. We reported it immediately and preserved the security footage. Molly saw the paper before I could put it away, and I watched the anger rise in her face as she realized how deliberate the pressure had become.